Cindy jotted down Beau Mckay’s address. “I’m delivering the script to Beau Mckay himself. If Beau doesn’t like it, that’s just fine. But he’s going to see it if it kills me.”
“Patricia just might do that if she finds out you were in her computer.”
Rule number one at Knight Studios: Don’t touch anything belonging to Patricia. Not her coffee creamer in the break room. Not her nail file in the bathroom. And never, ever her computer.
“If we don’t make this movie, we’re going to be out of a job by the end of the year.”
Tomás grew quiet. His sister was sick, some auto-immune disease, and he was her only family in the states. If he left, he’d take a pay cut, and prescriptions were expensive. “Here.” He took a large envelope out of the filing drawer and handed it to Cindy.
“Thanks.”
Picking up the phone, he buzzed Daphne at the front desk. She was one of the few people Patricia kept around. Probably because she looked like a grandmother and wasn’t a threat in the looks department. Lucky for Cindy, she acted like a grandmother too. “Do you still have those seals?” He paused. “We need one—Cindy’s delivering a script.”
Seconds later Daphne burst in. “Whose script? Your script?”
Cindy nodded. Nervous butterflies thrummed through her veins. “Am I crazy for even thinking of doing this?”
“Crazy smart.” Tomás went back to the door.
Cindy kissed the script. “For luck,” she told Daphne before sliding the papers into the envelope.
“Let’s make it official.” Daphne stuck a Knight Studios seal over the flap.
Cindy’s eyes stung as she brushed her fingers over the silver and blue embossed sticker. “Where did you find this?” Cindy asked. She hadn’t seen one since her dad died.
“This old girl has a few tricks up her sleeve. Now go.”
With a quick hug and a push out the door, Cindy was soon winding her way out of downtown into the maze of the Buckhead suburbs. The further she drove, the larger the houses tucked in among the trees. Her jaw dragged behind her. She thought her home was opulent, but she’d been looking through rose-colored memories. These homes were veritable castles with their bright white pillars, shiny windows, hedges neatly trimmed, stamped concrete, and iron fences. In contrast, the pillars that framed her front porch leaned to the left, the windows were foggy, and the lawn spread into the cracks in the driveway.
Cindy shook off her stepmother’s shadow. She was going to deliver her script right into the hands of Beau Mckay and convince him to read it right then and there. If he didn’t want the part, fine, she could deal with the rejection. Rejection was part of a writer’s life.
With his face in her mind, she resolved not to let the butterflies in her stomach nor her sweaty palms stop her from reaching for the stars.
Chapter 2
Cindy’s Accord slowed to a stop in front of Beau Mckay’s giant brick home. The long cobblestone driveway circled around a fountain rimmed with grass and BMWs, Mercedes, Buicks, Ferraris. Many more than Beau could possibly own.
Great, he’s got company.
The home looked like a smaller version of the White House, minus the dome. Two three-story white pillars framed the front porch. Between them, set back fifteen feet, was a beautifully carved wooden door banked by stained glass windows that perfectly framed the doorway. Two brick staircases cascaded down from the entrance, their edges trimmed with stunning flower beds displaying a myriad of blooms.
She craned her neck to see the front porch. Every window glowed, allowing glimpses of a party happening inside. Music spilled out of the house and over the fences. Laughter echoed through the night. No wonder she’d gotten past the community security guard so easily.
She watched as a giggling couple ran out the front door, down the curving stairs, and jumped into the fountain fully clothed. They came up laughing their heads off and flopping-drunk.
“Nice place. Nice party. Stupid people.”
What had she expected, really, from Atlanta’s well-known playboy? Beau Mckay had married and divorced two Hollywood starlets before declaring himself Atlanta’s most eligible bachelor. She couldn’t buy a loaf of gluten-free bread at the grocery store without seeing his latest escapade laid out in the gossip rags.
Not that she was interest in his escapades …
There were those times when the photographer caught a sense of regret in Beau’s eye; regret and loneness. Usually the look popped up in the pictures he didn’t know were being taken. She’d mentioned it once in front of Drusilla as they passed a newsstand and gotten the tongue-lashing of a lifetime.
“You don’t know him. He has everything a man could want in life.” Drusilla flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You’re so judgmental.”
Cindy had remained quiet for the rest of the errand. She hadn’t meant to sound as if she were judging Beau. On the contrary, she’d recognized the look because she understood it—had felt the emptiness reflected in his eyes. Dwelling on those emotions wouldn’t get her anywhere. Like Daddy said, any happiness she got out of life would be because she chose happiness even when life stunk.
Her posture wilted. Life stunk a lot lately.
